Afterwords
by cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock and Molly need to come to terms with what was said, and felt. Sherlolly


_**I haven't written anything in quite a while. I suppose I was still trying to digest everything that happened in series 5. It certainly was darker than the others, as had been announced all along. If you've read anything else I've written, you already know that I am a huge Sherlolly shipper. While the declaration in the final episode was not all I would have wanted, it was more than I expected. Anyway, as Sherlock would say, "It is what it is." Please read, and I hope you enjoy. It's my take on what I hoped would have happened after the credits rolled.**_

It had been one of the longest, and hardest, days of Sherlock Holmes' life, and it was about to get longer and was wrapped in a blanket, shivering, and being attended to by paramedics. Police vehicles were scattered about the grounds of the old Holmes manner, their multicolored lights illuminating the darkness. His brother had been found in his sister's old cell at Sherrinford, drugged and possibly concussed, but otherwise none the worse for wear. Inspector Lestrade had promised to keep an eye on him. His psychotic and murderous sister was being returned to custody, in a catatonic state, after a brief conversation with her brother, the object of her obsession.

Sherlock had learned many things that day. He had a sister he had completely wiped from his mind. Said sister had murdered his best friend. His beloved childhood pet, Redbeard, had never, in fact, existed. And his brother Mycroft would go to extreme lengths to protect him and his parents. Is was, perhaps, for the best that all these secrets were now out in the open. His parents would soon learn that their youngest child still lived, if her existence could be called that, and his brother would no longer have to bear the burden alone. But there was one other secret which had been revealed that Sherlock had to deal with immediately, or his was afraid that his chance would vanish.

It was growing later and later, and the detective was impatient to be away from here. John Watson was bearing up well, considering that he had spent an extended period of time immersed in rather cold water. Chilling his bones even further was the discovery of his skeletal companion, the little boy named Victor whom Euros Holmes had done away with in order to get her brother's attention. Sherlock now bundled John into a waiting police car, escorting him back to London and what was left of his family. As soon as John was safely delivered, the detective was off to Molly's flat, to face the consequences of his actions. He was both impatient and trepidatious.

It was considerably later that same evening that Molly Hooper lay in her bed, drifting off into what she was sure was a drug induced sleep. Anthea, Mycroft Holmes' assistant, had arrived earlier, looking concerned and glancing about nervously. Molly knew immediately that it had to be connected with the extraordinary call she had received hours earlier. Sherlock playing another of his cruel games, she had supposed. He had made her tell him that she loved him, a fact of which he was almost certainly aware. But she had turned the tables on him, insisting that he say it first, and sound like he meant it. Surprisingly, he had complied, complete with the artificial sincerity. It had almost broken her to hear the words under these circumstances. And when she finally complied to his demand, speaking barely above a whisper, she felt her spirit collapse. When he ended the call so abruptly, she moved like a zombie into her sitting room, ignoring the tea she had been preparing, to collapse on her couch and sob.

By the time Anthea arrived, the sobbing had ceased, but the emotional devastation lingered. Anthea quickly went about making them a pot of tea, explaining that Molly would, no doubt, need it to get through the next revelations. When the beverage had been prepared and placed on the kitchen table, Anthea led her to the table, sat them both down, and called her employer. After exchanging a few brief words, she spoke gently to the shaken pathologist. "Molly, I have Mycroft on the line, I'm going to put him on speaker, so we can all hear and speak. I don't know what happened today, not completely, but I know it was bad. So, let's all have a cup of tea, pretend we can handle anything, and hear about it all. Okay?" Molly nodded in response, a bit numbly and more than a bit confused. Then they heard the voice of Mycroft Holmes coming from the mobile phone in the center of the table, and the long tale of the Holmes brothers day of horror began to unfold.

Now, hours later, Molly was sleeping soundly, if not peacefully, when she was half awakened by the bed dipping next to her as someone climbed in. She might have been more disturbed by the fact if her mind wasn't in such a fog. "Sherlock, is that you?" she said drowsily.

"That depends. Just how upset with me are you, Molly?"

"I'm upset, Sherlock, but not with you, I suppose. Mycroft called and explained everything. I'm so sorry about what happened. Are you alright? And John?"

"John is resting comfortably in his own bed, tended to by Mrs. Hudson, I presume. She has decamped from Baker Street to his spare room for the time being. Her flat was relatively unscathed, but there was considerable damage done upstairs." He now studied the woman lying so close to him. "You seem to be taking this all remarkably calmly, if I may say so…"

"I think Anhea may have drugged my tea, Sherlock."

"Anthea was here?"

"Yes. Mycroft sent her over to check on me. He knew it would be hours before you would get back to London, and he wasn't sure if you would come here, in any case. I spoke to him on the phone, and he explained everything. I think it was everything. About Iris, or Eunice, or Eurydice…"

"My sister's name is Eurus, Molly."

"Eurus, Eurydice, what does it matter? Wherever did your mother find her book of baby names, Sherlock? I mean, really! Mycroft? Sherlock? Euros? You don't have any other hidden siblings with astounding names, do you?"

"I sincerely hope not. I've always found dealing with Mycroft rather difficult. But, compared to Eurus, he's a walk in the park." Sherlock moved closer to take the woman in his arms. She snuggled into his chest, heaved a contented sigh, and almost seemed to doze off. "Molly, I'm beginning to become concerned about whatever it was that Anthea slipped into your tea. It seems to have a rather pronounced effect."

"I suppose the wine may have amplified the effect, Sherlock."

"I thought you said you were drinking tea?"

"The tea was fine when the first of the minions showed up…"

"Minions? Molly, what are you talking about?"

"Mycroft's minions. Searching for hidden cameras. Supposedly hidden by your sister's minions. My god, I never thought that I would be associated with people who had minions, Sherlock. I'm simply not that kind of person. I'm a lowly pathologist, working in a basement. And the minions weren't what I expected, either. All suited and booted. Not short little yellow things wearing overalls and goggles…"

"Molly, what the bloody hell are you talking about?" Sherlock said rather urgently, growing more concerned about whatever medication had been ingested. "What do jaundiced dwarfs with protective eyewear have to do with anything?"

Surprisingly, Molly giggled as she replied, "Nothing, you git. Pop culture reference. Forget it!" She took a deep breath, trying to clear her head a bit. "I switched to wine when the second group of minions arrived, with a bomb sniffing dog. Tea was sufficient for the cameras, but explosives called for something stronger, don't you agree?" Sherlock merely hummed, but she took this for affirmation.

"They didn't find anything beyond the cameras, I suppose. Eurus did say she was bluffing about the bomb."

"The only thing explosive in this flat was Toby when he discovered a rather large dog sniffing around his bed," she answered, referring to her ginger tabby who was now staring at them from the foot of the bed. The small woman, clinging to the man next to her, now spoke softly and seriously. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I should have known that you weren't trying to hurt me. Or humiliate me. I shouldn't have made you say it first. That was selfish, and mean-spirited. I should have trusted you…"

"It's alright, Molly. It was something that needed to be said, after all."

"What do you mean?" she asked hesitantly.

"Just what I said. It needed to be said. It should have been said ages ago, because, looking back, it's been true for quite a while. I can only blame my own ignorance of my emotional state for the delay in the admission. Eurus knew. That's why she used you against me. I didn't remember her in my childhood, but she remembered me. I was always considered the emotional one. She, being a true psychopath, and sociopath, did not experience those feelings. During our childhood, I was one long experiment to my sister. It finally culminated in the murder of my best friend. And she planned much worse. She set a fire, attempting to kill our entire family. To my regret, she did succeed in doing away with the child I was. I may have wiped her from my memory, but I also seemed to have erased myself, so to speak. I buried Will Holmes somewhere in my mind, and reinvented myself as 'Sherlock'. Aloof, uncaring, selfish. I suppose I was protecting myself, but I wound up hurting those I care about. My parents lost two children. One spirited away to an institution, and the other imprisoned in his own head. Only Mycroft was left to carry on. So, in brief, while I never really lost the ability to love, to care, I seem to have lost, for a long while, at least, the ability to express it. But, just as I have discovered my lost sister, I have become reacquainted with my lost self. And that self loves you. That is a fact which I will never again shrink from telling you. As often as you want, or need, to hear it."

Molly was crying once again, but these were not tears of grief or desperation. They were tears of happiness at this unexpected turn of events. She couldn't bring herself to speak, so so listened carefully as the man she had loved for so long continued. "On a more practical note, Molly, since John's guestroom is currently occupied by my landlady, I was wondering if I could stay here for the duration. I could stay with Mycroft, I suppose…"

"No! I mean, yes! Of course you can stay here. Please!"

"It could be quite a while, Molly, before Baker Street is fit for habitation…"

"Stay as long as you want, Sherlock. A week, a month, forever…"

"Speaking of forever, Molly, I'd like your input on the renovations at Baker Street. I was thinking of taking over the upper floor entirely, creating more of a family home, if you're amenable to that. It's an ideal location, after all, centrally located for me, close to Bart's for you. There is also the advantage of a built in babysitter just downstairs, if the need should arise, which I hope it will."

Molly snuggled even closer, running her hands across his naked chest and finally bringing one arms up to wrap around his neck. "Sherlock, you're not wearing pajamas. Why are you wearing pajamas?" She spoke flirtatiously, if a tad drowsily.

"The question should not be why am I naked, my love, but why you are not." Molly yawned. "Not the reaction I was hoping for, Dr. Hooper. But, given that I am exhausted and you seem to be drugged, perhaps we should table that discussion until the morning."

"First thing in the morning!"

"Probably the second and third, as well," he said happily. "But I must tell you that I had anticipated your approval, and asked Billy Wiggins to drop by in the morning with some clothing and other items retrieved from my flat."

"Wiggins? One of your homeless network? One of your minions? Oh, god, Sherlock, you have minions, too. It's got to be a Holmes thing."

"Then, I suppose you had better get used to it. Maybe you should find one or two of your own to order about…

"I love you so much, you git. Now, get some sleep. The sooner we sleep, the sooner we wake, remember. And we have plans for the morning." And, if it was at all possible, they held each other even tighter and closer as they drifted off. And, for the first time in decades, Will Holmes, now calling himself Sherlock, fell asleep with a smile on his face.


End file.
